


Yours

by red_river



Category: Ookiku Furikabutte | Big Windup!
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-19 02:18:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3592635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_river/pseuds/red_river
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mihashi turned toward him, fisting his hand in the soft material of Abe's shirt, and Abe forgot whatever he'd been about to say, blindsided by the heat of Mihashi’s body and the wide, sad eyes staring up into his.</p><p>"Please don't give up on me."</p><p>One shot; AbeMiha, pre-slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Yours

**Author's Note:**

> A small idea I had based around the idea of a joint-school training camp and Mihashi's eternal insecurity. Abe/Mihashi, light slash or pre-slash; mostly a hurt/comfort story of the emotional bent. Please enjoy.

**Yours**

 

Something had been bothering Abe for the last twenty minutes, nagging at him like a curl of queasiness in his stomach all through the rushed shower, the dressing at light speed in a crowded locker room, foreign elbows flying, then mushing along to dinner in a crowd of sixty other high school boys who let out a collective whoop as soon as they were close enough to smell the curry. Abe was usually pretty good at unraveling his gut feelings, but it was hard to think straight surrounded by that much jovial noise, not to mention the damp funk of the foggy locker room all four schools had been using for the past six days of joint offseason training. As it was, it didn’t hit him until just about the moment he reached the front of the dinner line, and then it hit him like a punch to the solar plexus.

He hadn’t seen Mihashi since lunch.

Abe stared for one uncomprehending second at the steaming bowl of curry in his hands, then turned to blink out across the crowded dining room, searching for a splash of strawberry-blond hair. He stood frozen long enough that Tajima, next in the line, jammed an elbow into his back.

“Move it, Abe—some of us are starving here! Just because you got served—” The third baseman’s mouth snapped shut as Abe abandoned his bowl of curry on Tajima’s tray and stepped out of the line, moving down each bench in turn with his heart beating a little too loud in his ears.

He was probably just being paranoid. Maybe Mihashi had been too shy to shower with everyone else and was just now leaving the locker room, the late sunset gleaming in his wet hair. Maybe Abe just couldn’t see him, sitting in his usual hunched way between much taller Hanai and Suyama. And then, after he’d triple-checked the Nishiura table, he wondered in desperation if Mihashi was eating with his practice team—they’d been split into mixed teams that afternoon with players from all four schools, which Abe resented because the pitcher from Seitama was a wild-whipping, fast-balling ass who had worse control than a Little Leaguer. He hadn’t been able to stop himself from a few longing glances over at the adjacent field in between innings, watching Mihashi’s lithe, practiced windup, the ball smacking solidly into the Taishou catcher’s mitt every time. But maybe Mihashi had been luckier than him; maybe he and his new team had really…hit it off…

It was such an obvious reach that he couldn’t even hang on to it for the fourteen steps to the Taishou table.

“Hey.” The Taishou catcher—Sato something—glanced up at Abe and ran a hand across his lips, aggravating a smear of curry across his darkly tanned cheek. Abe crossed his arms. “Where’s Mihashi?” he asked.

He expected Sato to crane his head around like Abe had, but the catcher just shrugged, scooping up a wedge of potato almost too big for his spoon. “He’s out at the pitching targets. Couldn’t get him to come inside.”

Abe felt something roil in him, a flash of anger that the other boy could be so irresponsible about someone he’d caught for, sitting there stuffing his face while Mihashi was outside overworking his shoulder into a limp noodle—but it wasn’t Sato’s responsibility, it was Abe’s. He was the one who’d taught Mihashi to depend on him, to entrust him with nutrition and strategy and knowing when his body had taken all it could. He couldn’t expect anyone else to understand what Mihashi needed. He managed to excuse himself with a stunted “Thanks,” sincere or otherwise; then he crossed the dining room and stepped out into the evening air, the heavy light of the late sun writhing like fire in the boughs of the trees.

The camp felt different with everyone inside, Abe decided, picking his way between two practice fields and trailing careless fingers along the chain-link backstop. In the absence of excited voices, the constant _ping_ of ball and bat connecting, it was more obvious how far they really were from civilization, the usual sounds of traffic and city streets replaced by chirping crickets and the whisper of the little stream running through the woods behind the bunkhouse. There was only one sound out of place: the soft _fwoosh_ of a ball hitting a pitching target over and over, the net backing swinging gently on its metal frame as pitch after pitch hit its perfect mark. Abe made for that, reminding himself already to watch his temper when he reached his destination.

All the same, he nearly lost it as he came around the corner and caught sight of his boneheaded pitcher. Mihashi hadn’t even bothered to change out of his practice jersey; the black shirt was slicked to his back, sweaty bangs plastered to his forehead, and even at this distance Abe could see his shoulders shuddering with the tremor of exhausted breaths as he reached into his bucket for another ball. But even more than anger, the slow boil he felt whenever he caught Mihashi jeopardizing himself this way, Abe couldn’t handle the way his guts clenched at the look on Mihashi’s face—his eyes wet and his lips trembling, an expression of desperation Abe hadn’t seen since…since the first time he’d wrapped Mihashi’s hand in his and pulled him back up, into the light, or maybe the very first day they met, watching Mihashi collapse in on himself under the burden of his broken heart. Abe thought he’d fixed that by now.

He took another step in, let out a slow, careful breath to modulate his tone. “Mihashi?”

Mihashi nearly jumped out of his skin, the ball skittering out of his hand as he spun around to face Abe, his shoulders hunched up to his ears. Abe studied his flushed face, sweat or something else wet on his cheeks, the fidgeting hands clasped to his chest like they were holding his heart in. He leaned down to pick up the ball, stepped close enough to have put a hand on Mihashi’s shoulder if he thought the pitcher could have handled it.

“What are you doing out here?” Abe asked, as calmly as he could.

He wasn’t really surprised not to get an answer, though something jerked in his chest as Mihashi’s arms slithered down to wrap around his stomach, the picture of misery. He felt the familiar urge to reach out and shake him, to shout that he wasn’t angry until he got it through that concrete-thick skull. But he’d learned a long time ago that outbursts like that always ended in tears. Slowly, keeping his motions as smooth as possible, he stooped to drop the ball into Mihashi’s bucket, brought his eyes back to anxious amber-brown. Mihashi flinched like the small sound of the balls knocking together had been a gunshot.

There was a storm inside of Abe, a torrent of words he wanted to let loose about not wearing himself out like this and being so damn stupid about his arm and _making him worry_ —the unbearable agony of heat and vertigo he felt whenever he found Mihashi like this, on the edge of tears, the ache in him that longed to make it stop. But he couldn’t start that way—not if he wanted Mihashi to listen. Abe watched him for a long moment and then extended his arm, beckoning with crooked fingers.

“Give me your hand.”

Mihashi must have been expecting the lecture, too; he startled back a step, his eyes darting between Abe’s face and his outstretched hand. Abe pressed his lips together, just waiting. At last the pitcher did as he was asked, dropping his right hand heavily into Abe’s left. Abe traced the callused skin with his thumb, wincing at the blisters he could already feel blooming on those thread-roughened fingers. Then he moved his hands up to the elbow, then the shoulder, feeling the tension in exhausted muscles, the blossom of enraged heat at the back of Mihashi’s shoulder joint. He couldn’t help the inhale that hissed through his teeth.

“Damn it. You feel like you’re on fire. What were you thinking, pitching a full game and then…”

Abe was half a step behind his pitcher, his right hand sliding to Mihashi’s elbow so he could roll his arm at the shoulder, when he realized suddenly that Mihashi was moving too; the smaller boy turned into him, his pitching arm squished against Abe’s chest as he ducked his head and reached across with his left hand, fisting it in the soft material of Abe’s shirt. Abe forgot whatever he’d been about to say, blindsided by the heat of Mihashi’s body and the wide, sad eyes staring up into his as Mihashi took a deep breath.

“Please don’t give up on me.”

The words were so soft, barely a quiver on Mihashi’s trembling lips, that for a second Abe thought he’d misheard them. He felt his forehead contorting, something deep and vital in him pounding like a hammer as he stared into that dejected face.

“What?” he asked, a little too loud. Mihashi’s fingers clenched in surprise, but he didn’t let go.

“I’ll…get better, so…” Mihashi was breathing in short little bursts now, the hiccupping inhales Abe recognized only too well as the precursor to tears. The pitcher shook his head, his eyes squeezed shut like he knew it too. “So please don’t give up on me.”

Abe felt like someone had picked him up and shaken him. He couldn’t understand what Mihashi was saying, couldn’t understand what this had to do with a lonely pitching target and a long sunset and the five thin fingers wound into his shirt so tight he could feel the outline of his knuckles against his abdomen. He let go of Mihashi’s elbow, let that precious arm drop back to his side and turned so that they were facing each other, one baffled hand steady on Mihashi’s burning shoulder.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. “Why are you saying this?”

Mihashi cringed, fisting his second hand beside the first in the folds of Abe’s shirt. “The…the pitcher today…he was fast. And…lots of strikeouts.”

Abe frowned, barely following. “The pitcher from Seitama? Daichi, I think. What does he have to do with anything?”

“Because—he’s better, and so…that’s the kind of pitcher…” Mihashi turned his face away, biting off the ends of his words like he always did when he was upset, and Abe felt the nearly unbearable weight of his impatience crushing in on him. Still he held his breath, waiting for Mihashi to string a few more phrases together. The other boy choked on something that sounded like his name. “You spent all that time on me, but…in the end, I’m still…no good, so—”

“Hey.” Abe pressed his hand to Mihashi’s jaw and jerked his head up until their eyes locked, the motion startling the first tear down Mihashi’s cheek. He could feel his partner’s surprised breath on his face, and in a distant, hazy part of his mind he knew this was too close, even for them, but it didn’t matter right now—he had to get this through Mihashi’s skull, whatever it took. Abe dug his fingers into Mihashi’s neck, just enough to feel the pulse pounding under his blazing skin. “Look, I don’t know what that jackass Sato said to you, but—you are a fantastic pitcher. Don’t let anyone give you that crap.” His voice had gotten harsh, and maybe that was what the second tear was about, so pathetic and lonely that he couldn’t help cupping that cheek too, cradling Mihashi’s face in his hands and wiping the tears away with his thumbs. “It doesn’t matter what they see, okay?” Abe said, trying not to shake him. “Because you’re _my_ partner, and I see it. How amazing you are.”

He paused for a moment to catch his breath, the heaving in his lungs proof enough that he’d gotten a little heated. Usually, that didn’t matter when he was putting things right. But somehow Mihashi was still trembling, still wringing his shirt in two feeble hands, shaking his head as well as he could without pulling away.

“But that’s why…if you wanted a better pitcher…I couldn’t—I’m not—” Mihashi’s voice cracked on a shuddering breath, and all of a sudden Abe understood what this was about—realized in a flash that Mihashi had been looking over at his field, too, watching him catch for someone else, with no way of knowing Abe had spent the whole game dreaming about one flare of gold on the mound. Typical of Mihashi, he’d grabbed the hard edge of that moment and smashed his fragile heart with it. Abe felt his shoulders slump, the pads of his thumbs tracing soft arcs over his pitcher’s fevered cheekbones.

“Give me a break. You think I’d want to partner with someone like Daichi? You could cram all his talent into your little finger.”

He felt a shiver roll down Mihashi’s spine, but otherwise he got no response, the shorter boy silent in his hold. Abe breathed out in a sigh, dropping his left hand to press over Mihashi’s right where it was tensed against his shirt, tracing the familiar peaks and dips of dry knuckles.

“Look,” he tried again, more softly. “This…this is special. What we have is special. You have to know that. Right?” Mihashi blinked his eyes open, chasing a few more tears down his cheeks, and Abe let them go, focused on uncurling Mihashi’s fingers one by one until his own could slide between them, pressing palm to palm—the hand that threw and the hand that caught tangled up together, obliterating the distance between the mound and the plate. Abe took a deep breath. “No one’s ever made me feel like I do when I catch for you,” he said, and then felt his own cheeks heating up, the words maybe a little too honest. He pressed on all the same, giving Mihashi’s hand a long squeeze. “I’m not going anywhere, okay? But you have to know…how incredible you are. You could pitch to anyone. I need you to know that.”

He wasn’t sure why it was suddenly so important—why he needed to know Mihashi got it, to see that light of understanding in his eyes. And yeah, there was a part of him, the part that had watched that beautiful fluid windup one field over and felt the sympathetic smack of the ball into his glove each time Mihashi released, that recoiled from the words coming out of his mouth, couldn’t bear the thought that someday Mihashi wouldn’t need this—him—the way he did now. But a bigger part of him, the better part, knew he would trade all that if he never had to see this look on Mihashi’s face again, if he ever had the luxury of not remembering how tears looked pouring from those big amber-brown eyes, the way his whole body shook when he sobbed. If he couldn’t give him this, then for all the years they worked together, a perfect battery, he wouldn’t have given Mihashi anything worth having.

All the words out, Abe found himself standing in silence, the last of the daylight warming his face as Mihashi tipped his head up and looked at him, really looked at him, the dying sun on fire in his brilliant copper hair. Then the corners of his lips quirked up, and suddenly his flushed, tear-streaked face split into a smile, that wide, dazzling smile that always took Abe’s breath away because he saw it so rarely, because it was so bright that for a second his addled brain forgot he was staring into a sunset instead of a sunrise. But somehow Mihashi was still crying, crying harder, actually, hiccupping around breathless little sobs—and then all at once he was moving, leaning in, and something in Abe stuttered as he felt the shadow of warm breath on his face, wondered what Mihashi was trying to do and how they could even get any closer than this. Then Mihashi ducked and pressed his forehead to Abe’s shoulder, that wiry body curling against his as the pitcher leaned into him, and Abe let out the breath he’d been choking on, somehow disappointed and relieved at the same time that whatever he’d thought was going to happen hadn’t happened. He felt Mihashi’s hand unclench from his shirt to slide around his back, the flicker of pale lashes against his collarbone as the other boy closed his eyes.

“I just want to be your pitcher,” Mihashi murmured into his skin, drying his tears against Abe’s shoulder. “I just want to be yours.”

Abe had a little trouble breathing in. He had to focus on that for a long moment before he could raise his right hand, a little unsteadily, and thread his fingers through Mihashi’s hair, pulling the other boy in and tucking his cheek against the top of his head. Mihashi smelled like sweat and summer, the citrus of cut grass and the parched dust under their cleats, like every game they’d ever won and lost together under a radiant blue sky. It was a scent he wanted to fill his lungs with, carry inside of him like a blistering star in case he ever forgot how it felt to be this close to the sun. Though the sound was long gone, he felt that word echoing in his ear canals: _yours yours yours_.

It wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t what Mihashi was supposed to say, just like this wasn’t how they were supposed to be standing, wrapped around each other in the twilight—like that other thing that was and wasn’t supposed to have happened a minute earlier, when Mihashi leaned in. Abe breathed out and Mihashi breathed with him, nuzzling into the breadth of his shoulder as he squeezed his catcher around the waist.

“Just yours,” he repeated, in a whisper this time. Abe closed his eyes against the blinding red light.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, yeah. Okay.”

It was the only thing he knew how to say. Somehow he had a feeling Mihashi got the message.


	2. Epilogue: Mine

**Epilogue: Mine**

Two hours later, finally showered (again) and fed on cold curry, Abe bent over Mihashi’s prone body and massaged long circles into his shoulder, feeling the tension abate under his practiced fingers. Tajima watched them from the next futon over, the Matsuzaka Daisuke issue of _Aera_ open in his lap.

“Hey, I’m sore too. How come Mihashi gets special treatment?”

Abe rolled his eyes. “Because he’s an idiot,” he ground out, working the heel of his hand into the base of the trapezius. He felt Mihashi tense under him, waited for the flailing and apologizing that always came after a reprimand, however light. But this time, the only movement Mihashi made was to turn his head against the pillow until he could look up at Abe, the soft disorder of pale bangs obscuring his shy brown eyes.

“Thank you, Abe,” he murmured, and Abe heard it in surround sound, the way he heard those words every time Mihashi said them. He did his best to swallow his smile.

“It’s fine. I have to make sure my pitcher’s in good shape, right?” he replied, and felt that word tingling in his ears, too: _my, mine. Mine._ “Hold still,” he groused, to take the edge off. But since he couldn’t stop himself from reaching up to ruffle his fingers through the soft, damp strands of that strawberry-blond hair, he had a feeling even Mihashi wasn’t buying it.

Tajima grinned, rolling his magazine into a circle and holding it to his mouth like a bullhorn. “Hey, somebody open the window! It’s getting steamy over here—”

Abe had no idea who threw the pillow that creamed Tajima in the face, but he’d be eternally grateful anyway.


End file.
